Crusade
by Bronze Cat
Summary: Before his story turned to legend, before his legacy became nothing more than elitism and bigotry, before his friends and he built their sanctuary, he was just a man. Once he was a boy named Sal. Once he was a soldier known as the Green Serpent. Once he was a teacher called Professor Slytherin. He wasn't a monster; only a human.*AU due to timeline changes*
1. From Fen

**Welcome to my telling of the story of Salazar Slytherin and the founding of Hogwarts! This will be slightly AU since I really don't know much about 10th century Britain so I have decided to move the founding of Hogwarts to the 12th century. My reasons are simple; the political situation in Britain and Europe was difficult in the early 12th century - with a civil war known as the Anarchy going on in England and Normandy and the Second Crusade happening in the rest of Mainland Europe and the Middle East. This was also the very beginning of the persecution of witches and this whole situation has given me a rather interesting idea for a plot. So, hopefully you can forgive me moving quite a significant date in Harry Potter history by two whole centuries. :P**

**Warning - this fic will contain some things that could be perceived as Christian-bashing. This is _not_ the case. I am merely trying to portray the attitude to witches and wizards during this time period. **

* * *

_Crusade:  
1) a war fought by Christians against Muslims, often in Palestine, in the 11th, 12th, 13th, and 17th centuries.  
2) a long and determined attempt to achieve something that you believe in strongly_.

* * *

The three children hiding in the reeds of the fen paused for a moment. The youngest let out an anxious giggle which caused his older sister to shush him harshly. The other boy parted the reeds slowly and all three sighted their quarry. The boy they were hunting had his back to them. He was kneeling a few yards away from them and making those peculiar hissing noises again. He turned slightly and they saw the adder in his hands.

"Is he _talking _to it?" the girl whispered, her mouth twitching with derision.

Her little brother plunged his hands into the waters of the fen and scraped together some mud. He looked to his companions for approval and then heaved the mud into the hair. It hit the other boy square in the back of the head.

"Devil spawn!" the eldest boy jeered. He shot out of the reeds and shoved the other boy over so he fell face first into the water.

The other two scrambled from the reeds and joined him. They pinned him down and tried to hold him as he struggled. This was not the first time that they had tried this and it ended the same way as the previous attempts; a great force struck the three of them and they were sent flying back from their victim.

He sat up, quite calmly, spat out a mouthful of fen water and pushed his dark hair away from his eyes. "If I am the Devil Spawn then really you should not antagonise me," he said coolly. "And this is becoming quite tiresome. Leave me alone and find another to terrorise."

"Why should we? You are of ill stock and the entire village knows it, even your witch of a mother!" the girl sneered.

He had turned to leave but her words stalled him. He turned back to face them, a dangerous glint in his eye. He threw his arms wide and began to speak in his guttural, hissing language. His hand moved and he pointed at each of them in turn, his speech emphasising as his finger landed upon them.

They scattered, lobbing a few cries of "Witch!" and "Demon Spawn!" over their shoulders.

He sighed and turned to scan the reeds beside him.

"_Sorry. I didn't mean to drop you_," he said.

The adder poked its head out and regarded him thoughtfully. "_It was no issue,_" it replied, "_but you may want to rethink your insults. I do not understand why the hatchlings left you._"

"_They do not speak our tongue. To them it was as meaningless as the wind through the fen reeds._"

That seemed to satisfy the snake. "_Swift strikes to you, Man-hatchling,"_ it said. It bowed its head and then vanished back into the undergrowth.

"Swift strikes to you as well," he muttered in the human tongue before he waded from the fen and made his way back home. It was only a small cottage on the outskirts of the village but to him it could be a castle. He loved the moment when he crested the small hill on the road and saw it. He liked the way the smoke curled from the chimney stack, he liked the chickens milling around the door, he liked the heat pouring from the open door of his father's workshop, he liked the oak tree that cast its shadow over the house.

His mother was bent over her pestle, working furiously, but she dropped everything as he entered.

"Salazar! What happened to you?" she cried.

"Ambush in the fens again," he said flatly. Her brow furrowed with concern and she lifted her cauldron off the fire. Turning her full attention to her son, she began to strip him of his wet clothes. When he was warm and dry again, she took him in her arms and held him close. He wriggled slightly as her long, dark hair tickled his cheek but she didn't let him go and he had no choice but to relax into her embrace.

"Oh, Sal," she sighed. His fingers reached out and played with the locket around her neck.

Neither of them moved as his father entered, a dark expression on his face.

"What has happened?" he asked of his wife.

"The village children attacked Sal in the fens again," she said quietly. His father's grey eyes, the very same flinty colour as his, watched him carefully.

"And did you fight back?" he asked.

"Yes Father. I struck them with magic, but only because I would have died if I didn't," Sal answered, staring at the rushes between his father's feet. His father sighed and took a seat at the worn kitchen table.

"Sal, you can't, even to save your life. What does the first law of the Order of Merlin state?"

"_Thou shalt not use the magick of thy birthright to strike thine Muggle kin,"_ Sal answered dutifully. "But Father, they call me a monster and throw mud at my head. I do not antagonise them, I don't even speak to them! I only go to the fens to speak with the adders! _They_ are the ones who follow me there!"

"We have magical blood, Salazar. We are greater than the Muggles but, because of this, we have to be vigilant around them. They are prone to fits of jealousy caused by our abilities and they do not understand us. It is very easy to hate that which you do not understand," his father said.

"And you should not speak Parseltongue where the others can hear you," his mother added. "If you wish to practice, practice with your father."

He sniffed and continued to fiddle with his mother's locket.

There was a crash from outside and his father looked around.

"Slytherin! Show yourself!" a voice roared. His father frowned and reached for his sword belt. Belting it and loosening the blade in the sheath, he stepped towards the door. Sal's mother pushed him off her lap and went to join her husband in the doorway.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" his father asked. Sal crouched down and, through his father's legs, he saw some of the villagers.

"Slytherin, where is your brat?" one of them demanded. "He's laid a curse upon our children!"

"I imagine there has been some mistake," his father said.

"No mistake! He chanted at our children in an evil tongue; he is the Devil incarnate!" someone shouted.

"A mistake indeed," his mother snapped. "Our words are Latin; the language of your beloved church! If he had cursed your children then it would have been in the same tongue as your priests!"

He began to tremble. He had not told his parents how he had yelled at the other children in Parseltongue.

"Heretics!" another person shouted and his mother's shoulders stiffened. She pushed past her husband and took a few steps outside.

"Yes, I'm a heretic!" she shouted. "I have always made it clear that I am a Woods Witch, a follower of the Old Gods, but can I remind you that this _heretic_ has saved all of you from illnesses and brought all of your precious children into this world! Do not dare to reject me or my family!"

"Slytherin, take your woman to heel!" the first person said coldly.

"Why? I agree with everything she just said. All of you own weapons or tools made by me and imbibed with my spells. You are all hypocrites; you freely take magical help when it suits you but as soon as it threatens you you will have nothing to do with it!" he snarled. "Leave us be!"

The crowd dispersed, albeit grudgingly so.

His parents waited until they had all left before turning back to the house. His mother grasped his father's wrist and momentarily whispered something to him. He nodded and they suddenly both looked at their son.

Salazar stood slowly and stared back at them. His mother looked like she was about to cry and he had never seen his father look so solemn.

That night, they pulled him from his bed and dressed him in his warmest clothes. When he asked them questions, they did not answer but they did constantly glance through the windows of the house.

Finally, his father sat him down and presented him with a sword.

"I'm a metalcaster, Sal, as you know. I have been trained to imbibe steel and other metals with spells of strength and other qualities and they make for the finest weapons and tools, surpassed only by those of Goblin-make. This was the masterpiece I produced when I had finished my education. I want you to take it."

Sal drew the sword. It was much finer than anything his father had made for the villagers or even the local lord. It was too heavy for his underdeveloped arms but he could tell it was beautifully balanced. The sharp edge of the blade shone when he turned it to and fro and he could see the runes of protection and strength inscribed along the length. Two snakes of vibrant green sprouted from the pommel and twisted together to make the hilt. It was, all together, a beautiful weapon and he wished he had the necessary skill to bear it.

"Father, I can't take this. This is a king's sword," he breathed.

His father chuckled. "I'm flattered you think so, Sal, but the King probably bears one forged by someone with far greater skill than me. Promise me you will learn how to bear it."

He did so.

His mother had had tears in her eyes as she watched this exchange but she wiped them away as Sal sheathed the sword.

"Here, Sal. I want you to have this," she said, unfastening the locket from around her neck. "Think of us when you look at it."

Panic flooded through him at her words. "Why? Mother, what is happening?" he asked. They did not answer, only looked nervously towards the window again.

They led him outside to where his father's horse, a docile chestnut mare, was saddled and laden with provisions. His father lifted him onto her back and his mother pressed her locket into his hand.

"Go Sal," she whispered. "Ride hard and don't look back."

"But... but..." he stammered.

"Go, son! Before the villagers get here! Find other wizards, you will be safe with them. Avoid the Muggles and ask the snakes if you need help!" his father said and then slapped the mare on her rump.

She trotted off into the night, leaving Sal to stare over his shoulder at his parents and the house he had grown up in. Why were they sending him away?!

He reined in the horse a short distance from the house and tied her to a tree. As quiet as a shadow, he crept back along the path. A scream echoed in the still night and he jumped. As they screamed again, he broke into a run. That was his mother!

Pausing at the crest in the path where he could see his home, he bit back a wail of horror. The villagers had swarmed around the cottage and had both his parents restrained. Bright orange flames began to lick at the thatch of the roof and he saw some of the men fanning the flames to spread them faster. His father's forge doors were torn apart and the fire stoked until it too burst forth.

"Burn the heretics and their demon spawn!" a voice shouted and, with that simple command, his parents were tossed inside their burning home like logs on a fireplace. He couldn't move; his feet were rooted to the spot. Why had his parents not fought back?! Why had they not used magic? Curse Merlin and his Orders, his parents had been overwhelmed by this rabble of Muggles and left unable to defend themselves!

He stared in horror at the inferno that had been his home, at the column of black smoke twisting into the sky, at the chickens running in distress from the flames before being caught by the mob and flung into the blaze too, the red maw where his father had once worked at his anvil, at the shadow the old oak tree cast over the villagers - masking and protecting his mother and father's murderers.

They thought he had died too, from their shouts of glee. They had caught his parents but assumed he had still been asleep in the house.

But Salazar Slytherin had lived and he intended to carry on living. His hand opened and he looked at his mother's locket and the red welts in his flesh caused by his tight grip. His thumb stroked the _S_ engraved on the front while his other hand stroked the hilt of his father's sword at his hip.

He would never forget this first of the many atrocities of Muggles he witnessed.

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**Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! **

**The Order of Merlin is an award in modern-day Potter but I found a thing on the Wiki saying they were originally laws set in place to protect Muggles and stop wizards using magic against them. Sal's parents were also burned as heretics like most witches and wizards then since the crime of witchcraft didn't really exist. **

**Leave me a review telling me what you thought and I shall hopefully see you in the next chapter for Sal's next steps down his path.**


	2. To Valley Broad

**Thanks for reviews and follows last time! Hope you enjoy this chapter too!**

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He had been riding west, Sal knew that much. He had avoided villages and towns as much as he could and spent every evening sleeping wrapped in his cloak under a tree.

Seek other wizards, his father had told him. That was all well and good but he had never even seen another wizard. He had lived his entire life in one village and had probably not gone much further than ten miles away before. The local town hardly had a vibrant wizarding community. The few times he had accompanied his mother there, the townspeople had looked upon the pair of them with barely concealed contempt and looked over her potions and charms with the same manner.

The only wizarding community he knew of for definite was in London. His father had learned his trade as a metalcaster there and he often spoke of a street known only to the wizards where they could gather and trade their wares. Unfortunately, Sal had no idea where London was. He only knew he had been travelling west because that was where the sun set every day.

Slowly the landscape had changed from the flatlands and fens he knew so well to rolling countryside of small hills and woodland. He had enjoyed the ride but slowly the land had changed again. Now it was valley after valley of beautiful scenery. This he was not appreciating so much, since the weather had taken a turn for the worse and he had eaten the last of his provisions that morning.

He had no choice but to keep pressing on even as the wind rose and the rain came down in sheets. His bare hands turned into blocks of ice upon the reins and icy water was trickling down the inside of his hood. The light was fast fading but he could see nowhere where he could make a rudimentary shelter to spend the night in.

Nowhere, save for the twinkling lights of a building in the distance. Even if they were Muggles, he could plead hospitality and leave before morning light. He turned the horse towards the lights and squeezed her flanks.

She trotted off obediently. The lights twinkled in the dark but they never seemed to near. He gave the horse another nudge and she sped up again. Still the lights of the house seemed no closer. His hood fell back as he kicked the horse into a full blown gallop and he screamed in desperation as the heavy rain made the lights flicker and then vanish. He could see no longer and he could barely hold on to the reins.

Suddenly, he had slipped from the saddle and was bouncing on the grass. Pain shot through his arm and then the world went black.

* * *

As he came to, he kept his eyes shut. He was lying in what felt like the comfiest bed he had ever been in. One arm felt bandaged and twinged with pain when he tried to move it but he inched the other one out underneath the blankets. He didn't reach the edge of the bed.

He opened his eyes.

This bed was huge and the room beyond it was bigger than the house he had just left. The walls were bare stone but had been covered in beautiful tapestries of yellow and black that matched the embroidery of the blankets upon the bed.

"Ah, I see you are awake," a cheerful voice said from his left. He turned and stared at the smiling face of the girl seated on a stool by his bed. She placed her embroidery to one side and stood up. He tried to wriggle away as she leaned over the bed towards him. She glared at him and then peered into his eyes.

"Well, you seem to be fine. Father was quite worried when he found you lying by yourself in the valley," she said, her green eyes flicking around his face. She seemed satisfied and left his bedside to stoke the fire in the massive fireplace.

He watched her carefully. She was about his age and dressed in a simple black dress. She dusted her hands off and sat back on her haunches. Some of her strawberry-blonde hair fell into her face and she pushed it back behind an ear.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"In the house of Hufflepuff," she answered in her peculiar accent. "Deep in the beautiful green valleys of Wales."

She stood and moved across the room to open the shutters. "I'm Helga, Sir Hufflepuff's daughter," she added. As the shutters were thrown wide, he saw the green valley he had been passing through the night before. He had somehow made it to the house he had seen in the distance. And it would seem like this girl was one of his hosts.

"What kind of a name is that? Hufflepuff!" he snorted. He tried to sit up and gasped in pain.

"It is my name and I like it very much," she said primly. "And how dare you mock me for it. Unless you are named John Smith then I shall guess that yours is as unusual as mine."

"It's Sal. Salazar Slytherin," he admitted. She giggled at that.

"And you say my name was funny?" she chuckled, tucking the errant piece of hair behind her ear again. "I think I shall take my leave of you for now. You need more rest and my father will want to know you have awakened."

She left in a swirl of skirts. As the door shut behind her, there was a clunk from the lock. He struggled out from under the blankets and scuttled across to the door. Yes, she had locked the door behind her. Wonderful.

He knelt down and pressed an eye to the key hole. If only he could remember the words of opening spell his mother taught him.

* * *

Sir Randolph Hufflepuff was a tall, imposing man with a once powerful body now given over to middle age and too much food and ale. He had the same piercing green eyes as his daughter and no hair on his head save for his bushy eyebrows and luxuriant moustache. Stroking this moustache was a favoured relaxation technique for him and he was doing so now as he studied the boy he had found lying in the dirt.

He did not know exactly what to make of the child. His pale skin and thin face made him look almost sickly and he was not helped by the dark hair falling across one eye. Helga had fixed him up as best she could and talked to him when he came around. Eventually, he had felt strong enough to see his host and was now sat opposite Sir Randolph in their dining hall.

"So, m'boy," he said eventually. "I hope you have been made comfortable?"

"Yes, sir, very," the boy answered.

"That accent... south-east England if I am any judge? You are a long way from home," he said. The boy blinked.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I wouldn't know. I lived where I lived and then I had to leave. Your daughter told me I was in Wales but I don't know where that is," he said.

Helga had slipped through a door while he was speaking. She crossed the room in a few short steps before setting the tray in her hands on a table and picking up her father's tankard.

"Guests first, Helga," he reminded her gently. She blushed but quickly picked up the bowl of stew and offered it to their guest. The boy accepted it and began to gulp it down.

"It's good. Thank you," he said.

"Thank you, Sal," she smiled, taking a seat at her father's feet.

"So, Sal," Sir Randolph said. "Why did you leave home? Where are your parents?

Sal stopped eating. "My parents are dead, sir. I left home because there was nothing left for me there. And, if all is well and good, I will be taking leave of your hospitality soon. I need to find people like me."

"Like you?" Helga asked. "What do you mean, like you?"

He hesitated and looked down at his stew. How could he possibly explain? These Muggles were nothing like the villagers. They had taken him in and patched him up. They had shown him nothing but kindness but he knew he couldn't stay. He had to find other wizards.

Sir Randolph smiled suddenly and twitched that wonderful moustache of his. "You are always welcome here in the House of Hufflepuff. We would never turn away a guest," he said.

He flicked his hand towards his tankard lying on the table where Helga had left it. It rose and floated towards him steadily. Sal's mouth fell open and Helga giggled.

"I think, my dear, that Master Salazar has been searching for people like us," Sir Randolph said.


	3. Wandlore

"..._Let not thy Muggle-kin see thine magick for they shall... they shall..._"

Sal faltered and glared at the words on the parchment.

"Covet," Helga prompted helpfully. He frowned and pushed the book across the table.

"You need to practice reading more often," she said.

"Why? Neither of my parents could read and they managed perfectly fine," he said. Now it was her turn to frown and she pulled the book towards her.

It had been six years since her father had found the boy lying injured and in that time he had become one of the family. Helga was an only child and, although her father loved her dearly, Sir Randolph was thrilled to have a boy he could raise almost as a son. His daughter was firmly involved in the running of his household. She oversaw the kitchens and the team of house-elves who cleaned and tidied their home and cheerily showed no interest in the arts of war. He longed to teach her how to fight but she refused to learn beyond a few basic spells.

Sal gave him the opportunity to train a warrior as fine as himself. Helga had been in charge of the boy's education thus far, something he cared for very little.

And now he pushed back his stool from the table, stood with a huff and retrieved his father's sword from its place by the door. Leaving a protesting Helga with her books, he walked through the corridors of Hufflepuff Manor until he reached the main hall. He unsheathed the sword and walked to the centre of the room, swinging the blade wildly.

There was a creak to his left. He whirled, his blade came up and it met Sir Randolph's with a clang.

"Dammit, Sal, m'boy, you are getting too good," the old knight noted.

"No, sir, you are just getting too old," he said cheekily. One of Sir Randolph's incredible eyebrows rose towards the ceiling and he moved. Sal was pushed back as he advanced mercilessly, his sword a blur of steel.

"Now, m'boy, what was that?" he asked when he had the young man pinned against a table. "This old man is getting a little hard of hearing."

They danced back and forth across the room in a whirl of clothes and blades. Sal had kept his father's last wish; under the tutelage of Sir Randolph he was now an expert swordsman. The knight had also taught him how to properly ride and other arts of war. He was a formidable warrior - but he still couldn't beat his teacher.

Sir Randolph spun, throwing all his weight into the blow. There was no way Sal could have stopped it with his own blade. It was headed straight for his swordarm. Without thinking, he threw his other hand forward and yelled "Protego!"

His shield sprang up and Sir Randolph's sword collided with it in a shower of sparks. The impact was enough to knock the older man off his feet and send him sprawling on his back with a cry of "Bloody hell!"

A round of applause broke out from the doorway.

"Splendid, quite splendid!" an unfamiliar voice said. They turned to see a confused Helga next to a tiny woman. She was the one clapping, an almost childlike expression of delight on her face.

"I'm sorry, Father, she just barged in here with her retainers," Helga explained. Sir Randolph focused on the woman and then made a strangled noise.

"Your Highness," he gasped and threw himself on one knee.

The mysterious lady laughed airily and walked forward. She was barely taller than Sir Randolph's kneeling form and dressed rather exquisitely. A bejewelled hand was thrust into Sir Randolph's face and he kissed one of the rings respectfully.

"It has been a while, Randolph," she said. "I trust you are still loyal to my father and not the wretch that stole my throne?"

"Of course, your Highness," he said, staring deep into her eyes.

Sal cleared his throat and Helga glared at him. She made a small motion, _stop it!_

"Salazar, my darling Helga, I have the incredible honour to introduce her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Matilda, the true Queen of England and Normandy," Sir Randolph said.

Helga and Sal exchanged a look at that. Matilda was the daughter and only living child of the last king, Henry, but her cousin Stephen had claimed the throne on Henry's death. Sir Randolph, having been one of Henry's most loyal supporters, had not publicly declared allegiance to Stephen and had always mentioned that he thought Matilda to be the true monarch.

"I trust you have raised your children to believe in my right and not in my cousin," she said sharply.

"Of course, although, Salazar is regretfully not my blood. He is an orphan I took in some years past," he explained. "Both he and my daughter have just celebrated their fifteenth year."

She turned to him in a rustle of skirts and rushed towards him. He bowed politely and kissed her offered hand.

"Extraordinary," she breathed, fluttering her eyelashes at him. Since she was almost old enough to be his mother, this, along with her refusal to let go of his hand, made him feel rather uncomfortable.

"You say he is of common blood?" she asked Sir Randolph. When he confirmed it, albeit reluctantly, her eyes widened. "Extraordinary," she repeated. "I have never heard of the Gift being amongst the common folk. And yours is so strong..."

Sal freed his fingers from her grasp.

"There are many of us, your Highness," he said. "We are wide-spread, healers mostly, but we are there."

She turned to the small group of retainers crowded in the door behind Helga. "I want you to go out into the country! Seek out my people in the villages and taverns! Let them know that their true Queen supports them and knows the powers they bear!"

* * *

Matilda continued in this fashion for the duration of her stay. Sal tried to ignore her but she was always there; hovering in the doorway as he sparred with Sir Randolph or sitting quietly in the corner while he read with Helga. And always, she pressed him for details of the magical folk hidden amongst the Muggles. He could never tell her anything because he simply did not know. He told her what he knew about the magical community in London but that was all.

He wasn't her only target; poor Helga also received a barrage of questions. She took Matilda to the kitchens and demonstrated some of the cookery and household spells she had invented. Matilda gasped and praised and promised Helga a place in her household when she took her throne. Helga nodded politely and rolled her eyes when the older woman turned away.

Safely behind the closed doors of Helga's rooms, she and Sal ranted to each other about this silly, demanding woman who clung to them so. They knew they could not say a word to Sir Randolph. He was far too much of a supporter of her.

One day, Matilda bid the two of them take a walk with her in the kitchen garden. They walked on either side of her and exchanged glances over her head as she whittled on about this and that.

"I want to thank both of you for making me so welcome," Matilda trilled as she examined one of the vegetable patches. "And I am happy to find such a powerful witch and wizard in the household of one of my loyal supporters. I would have you become even more powerful, if you are willing."

"More powerful? How?" Sal asked.

Matilda turned and smiled at them widely. From her sleeve, she drew a piece of wood.

"With one of these. A wand!" she said. "This is mine. My father commissioned it for me when I came of age. I want you to find one. I shall need all the magical help I can find when I overthrow my cousin."

She turned away and waved her wand. The roses on the wall trellis bloomed and Sal heard Helga give a small sigh of exasperation. It was winter; those roses were going to be dead by next week now.

"So, how do we procure wands?" Helga asked.

"There is a wandmaker in London... Ollivander's is the name I think..." Matilda said, tapping her wand against her cheek. "But I wouldn't know. It is something you must find out for yourselves."

* * *

"Find out for yourselves. Find out for yourselves!" Sal raged later that evening in the peace of Helga's room. "Of course, we'll just stroll into London and ask for the wandmakers. Easiest quest in the world!"

Helga watched him pace up and down her room and then sighed and returned to her book. "Well, before we even go to find the wandmaker, we need a magical core. According to this, we take the core to the wandmaker and they match us with a wood."

Sal sighed and took the chair opposite her. "A magical core?"

She nodded.

"Anything from a magical creature will do but this book theorises that the three most powerful cores are phoenix feathers, unicorn hairs and dragon heartstrings. If we are going to make wands, we should try to make them as powerful as possible."

Sal reached out and took the book from her. "What do you want as your core?" he asked.

"I was thinking a unicorn hair," she said. "Unicorns are such beautiful creatures - I'd be honoured to receive a wand with their hair."

She blushed as he grinned at her.

"Well, I want a dragon heartstring by that logic," he said. "Dragons are dangerous bastards; remember that Green that terrorised the local village last year?"

"Of course you are going to want to take down a dragon," Helga sighed.

"And not just any dragon!" he said brightly. "I want a Hebridean Black. They are more ferocious than Welsh Greens."

Helga sighed. "Do we really have to go to Scotland? These wands better be worth it."

* * *

**AN- Apologies for my inconsistency in updating! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a review telling me what you think!**

**Matilda was a real person. For the purposes of my story, she is a witch and her cousin Stephen is a Muggle so we have magical folk against non-magical folk. Uh-oh! **

**Also, at the time of this story there were very few wands. To get a wand, you had to get your own core and take it to the wandmaker, as detailed above. My headcanon is that wandless magic used to be the norm and magic with wands was more powerful but as wands became more commonplace, this was subverted and wandless magic was perceived as being more difficult and more powerful. To bear a wand was a symbol of power, and Sal and Helga are only going to be fifteen when they get theirs. I thought this was appropriate for two of the Founders. ;)**


	4. The Quest for Cores

The journey North took some weeks. Helga was not happy that Sal had insisted upon tracking down a Hebridean Black when Wales had plenty of Welsh Greens. She was also unhappy because all her books were very clear on the fact that Hebridean Blacks were bigger, better armoured and just generally more bad-tempered than Welsh Greens. Finally, she was unhappy because for the first time in her life she had to leave Wales.

For the first week, Sal found it extremely irritating to listen to her moan as they journeyed North. Then they reached Scotland and Helga decided it looked quite a lot like Wales. That cheered her up a bit.

What kept him sane through all her moaning was his journal. He had started one at Sir Randolph's suggestion and the old knight had given him his first book. It was a handsome thing, bound in dark green leather and filled with page after page of strong parchment, and he felt a bit bad writing in it in his still very childish script.

Eventually, they reached a small town near a unicorn population. In one of the inn's small but comfortable bedrooms, they planned how on earth they were supposed to catch a unicorn.

"They are very elusive," Helga noted. "Our best bet is either dawn or dusk. According to the innkeeper, there is an old stone they come to graze at during those times."

Sal, who was carefully drawing a map of the local area in his journal, grunted, "Dawn," at her and sucked the end of his quill thoughtfully.

She glared at him and shut her book.

"And where would we be finding this dragon you are intending to slay for its heartstrings?" she asked primly.

"Out west. Heard there's some beyond the Great Glen."

"Out west. Care to give us a little more direction than that?" she asked.

He tore his eyes from the journal to meet her frosty gaze.

"We're looking for a ruddy great dragon," he pointed out. "I think it won't be that difficult to find."

* * *

She refused to speak to him for the rest of the evening and greeted him in the morning with curtest of good morrows he had ever received from her. As she gathered some last information from the innkeeper, he regarded her.

Helga was a curious creature. In her father's house she ruled like a little queen. She worked herself and her house-elves as hard as they could to keep the other occupants fed, clothed and warm. She was the perfect homemaker, there was no denying it, and her kind heart made her one of the most incredible people Sal knew. Being away from her home and her father was hard on her, he could tell, but she was trying to stay strong for him. Her reading and her incessant questions were just her way of trying to help.

They rode out from the town towards the wood where the unicorn population lived. They reached it just as the sky became tinged with the oranges of dawn. The stone the innkeeper had told them about stood tall and proud in a glade and around it grazed the unicorns.

Sal's horse whickered at the sight of such beautiful creatures and he rubbed her neck comfortingly. He had to stay back, Helga had made that clear. Unicorns did not trust men as much as they trusted women and if the herd bolted then the two of them would have to come back at dusk.

Helga dismounted and handed the reins of her horse to Sal. The unicorns stopped grazing and looked up at her as she walked slowly towards them.

The stallion of the herd moved towards her, muscles bunching under the pure white velvety skin. He paused a few feet from her and pawed at the ground with one golden hoof. Helga stepped forward with fingers outstretched and the unicorn came to meet her.

Her cheeks flushed with success as she ran her hands through the silvery mane.

Then the sun peeked through the trees and reflected off the white coats of the herd and they turned and walked off between the trees.

Helga turned back to Sal and held up, with a small smirk, the handful of loose, silvery threads of hair that had come the stallion's mane.

* * *

The dragon was huge. It sprawled across the rocks of its cave; its great scaled belly heaving with every breath and little snorts of blue flame escaping from its snout as it snored. Despite Helga's doubts, it had been very easy to find.

"This is going to be easy!" Sal cried, straightening up from behind the rock he and Helga were crouched. Helga gasped and pulled him back down.

"Remember that you need to kill the dragon and rip its heart out!" she hissed. "Hardly the easiest test in the world! And keep your voice down, you'll wake it!"

"Don't be silly, it's out cold. I bet... I bet you my dinner that I can run down there and tickle it and it won't stir an inch," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "On you go, you idiot."

He hopped over the rock and scrambled down the gravel on the other side.

The dragon up close was much larger than he had originally thought. He eyed the spiked barb on the end of the loosely swishing tail and the heavy, dark scales covering every inch of its body. One of its eyelids twitched and Sal froze as he saw the curve of a purple eye glimmering underneath. But, with another snort of blue flame, the eye shut and he relaxed.

He turned and glared up at Helga before stretching out a hand to tickle the dark grey scales.

The eye beside him shot open and, for a split second, he saw himself reflected in the dark chasm of the pupil. Then the dragon was rearing over him, wings spread wide and its roar drowning out Helga's scream.

Sal jumped backwards and dived behind a rock as a plume of blue fire swept towards him. He cried out as the flames licked at his sleeve and singed the flesh beneath. He could hear the dragon crawling towards him over the rocks. All of Sir Randolph's training went from his mind and he shut his eyes and hugged himself as the heat of the dragon's fire grew ever stronger.

He dimly became aware of many voices chanting. The onslaught of dragonfire ceased and he heard the dragon begin to moan and growl. He opened his eyes and peered over the scorched rock. The dragon was shaking its head back and forth but was crouched back like an obedient dog.

On the hillside above stood a group of wizards, the leader clutching the arm of a struggling Helga.

"Who trespasses upon the land of the MacFustys?!" he demanded, throwing her towards Sal. He caught her before she fell.

"Helga Hufflepuff and Salazar Slytherin!" he shouted back. "We seek a dragon heartstring."

The wizard scoffed. "The heartstings of a dragon are not easily come by. And these dragons belong to us. Find another species to butcher."

The MacFustys stood aside to let them past. No protestations could move them. They just stood stoically by until Sal gave up and walked back the way he and Helga had come.

Helga slipped her hand into his.

"So, do we try again?" she asked after some minutes silence.

"Or we go find a Welsh Green," he said sadly.

"Oh, come on, Sal! If I can get a unicorn hair then I am sure we can get you a dragon heartstring! Don't give up!"

He shrugged.

"Wait, wait, wait!" a new voice screeched. They turned.

A girl their own age was running across the heather towards them. She skidded to a halt next to them and swung her long curtain of dark hair over her shoulder.

"I can help. If you still want the heartstring," she said.

"You can?" Helga asked and she nodded.

"I'm a MacFusty. The dragons will obey me and I know where one is that you can kill without the Clan Elders finding out," she said brightly, her dark eyes shining."Come on!"

She turned again and scampered off in a different direction. They exchanged a look with her and then tried to follow. It was like trying to keep up with a hare or a sprightly doe; the girl had spent almost all her years bounding across the unforgiving Scottish landscape and they were not used to it at all.

As she leapt neatly over rocks and bushes, she gabbled as fast as she was running.

"I suppose you want the heartstring to make a wand. You are smart there, it is thought dragon heartstring is one of the best. And with a wand at your side, you'll be extremely powerful I've never heard of having a wand so young. And, of course, I'm taking you to a young dragon. A young dragon heartstring will make a young wand. A young wand will mature with you as you age and create a very powerful bond. If you had somehow managed to take down Auld Bastard back there then he'd have made a very stubborn wand and you'd have had trouble bonding with it."

"Auld Bastard?" Helga wheezed.

"Aye!" the girl said with a tinkling laugh. "Auld Bastard! Ye coulda picked a better dragon to grapple with!"

She skidded to a halt again by another cave and smiled brightly.

"Have you got something to smite the mighty beastie with?" she asked.

Sal and Helga exchanged another look before Sal drew his father's sword. The girl examined it critically.

"Hmm, yes. Metalcasted. Goblin-forged would be best, of course, but this will do. Just make sure all your weight is behind you when you strike. Ready?"

Before he could answer, she jumped into the mouth of the cave.

"My goodness, what is happening?" Sal asked.

Helga sniggered. "I think some Scottish sprite is offering you the chance to get your wandcore."

She pushed him playfully towards the cave mouth and, with a flick of the eyes skyward, he jumped down after the girl.

She was waiting for him just inside. With another bright smile, she pointed to the sleeping form of the dragon. It was smaller than Auld Bastard, about the size of a horse, but it still looked just as fearsome.

The girl crept forward and began to sing softly under her breath. The dragon's eyes flicked open and it shot a plume of bright blue fire towards her. She thrust out a hand and the flames parted around her. Her face was cold and hard; her dark eyes shining in the blaze. Her song rose and the dragon snorted and cowered just like Auld Bastard had. She nodded to Sal.

He stepped forward, his blade ready. The dragon stared up at him with its wild, purple eyes and for the smallest second he paused. Then he brought the blade down.

The dragon roared. The flames died. And Sal plunged a hand into the hole in the scales and wrenched forth a heartstring.

"You did it!" the girl shrieked happily. She leapt forward, planted a kiss upon his cheek and then dived armfirst into the hole herself. "Now I have my own! Maybe I'll find a wand of my own one day," she grinned, waving it about.

She turned and skipped back up the rocks before turning back to him with a coy smile. "You realise that sharing the heartstrings of the same dragon is counted as a betrothal amongst the Clan."

He tried to digest this.

"Well, I have to go back home, I'm afraid," he said. She shrugged.

"I can wait."

"It would be nice to know the name of my betrothed," he called after her as she scampered up and out the cave.

She appeared around the rocks again.

"Rowena," she said with a small smile.

"I'm Sal," he told her. She gave him her last beautiful, bright smile and flicked her dark hair over her shoulder again.

"I know. I'll wait until you come back."

And with that, his little Scottish sprite vanished and he was left to climb from the cave to show Helga his spoils.


	5. In the Warmth of the Forge

Geraint Ollivander picked through Helga's collection of unicorn hairs. He selected one and held it up to the light. "Mmm, yes," he murmured before setting it down and selecting another. This received a wince and he threw it onto the brazier without another look.

"Oh," Helga said in a tiny voice. "What was wrong with that one?"

"Too fine," the wandmaker grunted. "It would snap when bonded to the wood."

Sal pulled at his collar and breathed deeply. The shop was dark and stifling enough without the heat pouring from the brazier. Stacks of wood tottered everywhere and boxes of discarded wands piled up the walls. Outside, the patrons of Diagon Alley bustled about their business. It was a curious place; a safe haven for wizards located behind an inn that the Muggles of London walked past as if it did not exist. The alley itself was cobbled and lined with shops selling anything one could imagine.

Neither Sal nor Helga had ever been around so many other witches and wizards before. However, they were not used to being around many people in general. The last major visitation upon the house of the Hufflepuffs had been Matilda and her entourage. There, Sal and Helga had been comfortable and at ease in their familiar surroundings. London was different. It pressed in around them but simultaneously seemed to stretch on forever with no offering of protection.

Their first few days had been spent in their room in the inn under the thin guise of gathering strength from their long journey. Gathering the courage necessary to leave the den had been difficult but they had managed to edge out to explore.

Ollivander straightened up. "Now you," he said to Sal with a flick of a hand.

Sal hesitated, then drew his handkerchief from his pocket. The dragon heartstring was nestled safely inside. Ollivander unwrapped it and held it up to the light.

For a moment, unease coursed through Sal. Suppose there was something wrong with it? He had no others to offer. If this one wasn't good enough then he would leave here wandless.

"Almost perfect," Ollivander grunted. He laid it down beside Helga's chosen unicorn hair. "That is the way to do this. Clear, decisive, all or nothing. Laying all your hopes upon one string shall make a wand that obeys you without question. It will also make it much harder for anyone else to use it."

He turned and squinted at a giant roster just behind the counter. "Wands should be done in a week," he told them.

"A week?" Helga exclaimed.

Ollivander glared at the pair of them. "Aye. One week. I have to match the cores to a wood and bind them together. It is a lengthy process and yours is not my only order. If this is a problem then take your business elsewhere. You won't find any wand as good as an Ollivander's though."

Sal returned his glare with fervour but Helga nodded meekly.

"Fine, we'll be back in a week," she said.

They stepped back out into the bright sunshine of the street.

"What now?" Sal demanded. Helga looked around at the other shops.

"We could go for an explore?" she suggested. "There's a robe shop Father has asked me to duck into and a few book shops that look interesting."

"And that will maybe take today and tomorrow at most," he grumbled but followed her up the street. They spent a dismal few hours in the seamstress'. Sal coldly ordered a new black and green doublet with silver fastenings before taking a seat and waiting for Helga. She seemed to take ages; dithering between materials and styles and tiny trivial things like the shades of yellow for the beadwork.

He left like a little storm-cloud scudding along in the brightness of the sunny alley. Helga breezed behind him, gushing about something from the shop, as he made a beeline for the bookshop she now wanted to visit.

He wanted to go back to the inn and update his journal. The snake in him had been abroad for far too long and was beginning to tire of social interaction for the day.

His mood was further darkened as a deep voice cried, "Ho, lad!" and grabbed his arm. He turned to see a brute of a man standing over him, blue eyes peeking out between bushy eyebrows and beard of flaming red. Sal considered yanking his arm from his grip but the man's arms bulged with muscles and he held Sal's own, pitifully skinny limb tightly.

"That sword... where did you get it, laddie?" the man asked, his eyes squinting at the sword at Sal's hip.

"It was my father's," he said defensively. The stranger's face broke out into a wild grin.

"You're Slytherin's boy?!" he crowed with delight and dropped Sal's arm only to grab his hand and pump it enthusiastically. "Gawain Weasley, at your service, young sir. I own the metalcasting forge up the way there and your father was my apprentice many a year ago!"

"You never said your father was a metalcaster, Sal!" Helga said, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. As Weasley introduced himself again and bowed to kiss her hand, Sal blinked a few times in shock.

No, he hadn't mentioned that his father was a metalcaster. He had barely spoken about his parents to the Hufflepuffs. They knew he was an orphan and his parents had been commoners but they could also tell that it was a sensitive subject for him.

"Come, come! You must come to the forge! Come see where your father learned his craft!" Weasley boomed. One hand closed around Sal's wrist and he was yanked along the street.

The forge was wedged between a menagerie and an apothecary. The heat from the furnace washed over him and with it came memories, memories of his father's forge. Weasley had let him go so he stepped forward towards the anvil. A rack of tools lay nearby. Metalcasting tools; designed specifically for binding enchantments to the metal during the forging process. How many times had he sat in the corner of his father's workshop and watched him work?

He absentmindedly reached out a hand towards the tools but stopped himself just in time. It was considered incredibly disrespectful to touch somebody else's tools; his father had made that clear.

"Your father was the finest apprentice I'd ever trained. I begged him to go into business with me; by Merlin, if he'd opened his own forge he'd have run me outta business years ago. But, all he wanted to do was return to that village he was from to marry his sweetheart," Weasley said from behind him. "Last thing he ever made here was a locket for her."

Sal stroked the lump in his clothes where his mother's locket sat. He hadn't taken it off once since she put it there on that dreadful night so long ago.

"You know...," Weasley said. "I'd be more than happy to show you a few things."

Sal looked over at him. The master metalcaster's face was sad but a small smile was still visible amongst his beard.

"Ours is a small community and news travels fast," he said. "I know your father was killed some years back. If I'd known about you I'd probably have come looking for you m'self. If you're in London for a while, I'll show you something of your father's trade."

* * *

Later in his life, Sal would often return to the memories of that week in Weasley's forge; his skin burning from the heat of the forge, the ring of hammer and steel, the master metalcaster's roar of a laugh from beside him and Helga's giggles as she flirted with Weasley's apprentice, Elric, at the back of the shop.

The work was hard and often confusing but, by the end of the week, his pieces were apparently adequate for a beginner apprentice. He found binding the charms to the metal to be the easiest part; it was the actual smithing he struggled with. Despite what Weasley told him, he thought his pieces looked rubbish.

Seeing the beautiful things even an apprentice like Elric could create compared to his lumpen messes really got him down. That is, until Weasley decided to have a stiff word with him.

It was just the two of them in the forge. Helga had gone to pick up some of the goods she had ordered and Elric had volunteered to chaperone her. This had been some hours ago. Sal was pretty sure that the pair of them had somehow made their way to the Leaky Cauldron.

He was trying to bind a charm to a necklace he'd made earlier in the day when the spell slipped from his hand and cracked the pendant right down the centre. He groaned and threw it into the scrap pile.

"Now, lad," Weasley warned from the other side of the forge. "Behaving like that will get you nowhere."

"None of these pieces seem to be working," he said.

"What about this?" Weasley said, holding up a dagger Sal had made earlier in the week.

"That's not pretty," he said shortly. It was strong, true, but it was a squat little thing with only a few basic strengthening spells bound to it.

Weasley raised an eyebrow then threw the dagger the length of the forge. It plunged into the doorframe and stuck there.

"Who cares that it isn't pretty? It's strong! Look at me, am I pretty?" he asked, striking a stupid pose.

Sal snorted but went to retrieve his father's sword. "But this is a beautiful piece and it's strong too," he said, holding up.

"Yes, but that is a masterpiece, lad," Weasley said. "It took your father seven years to reach that level. You could never make something like that in a week and you'd be a fool to even think you could. This sword alone took a month to make; it's a very powerful magical weapon."

Sal looked at him curiously and then handed over the blade when Weasley held out a hand for it. The metalcaster fetched a piece of wood from the woodpile and pushed the tip of the blade deep into a crack in the wood.

"_Incendio!"_ he cried.

Sal gasped as the runes along the blade lit up in a blaze of emerald green. A plume of green fire exploded from the crack in the log and Weasley swiftly removed the sword before kicking it out into the courtyard at the back of the forge.

"I'm guessing you didn't know it could do that?" he asked, passing the sword back to Sal.

"No... I thought it was just strengthened by magic," Sal said, holding the blade up to read the runes again.

"Aye. That it is. But, as long as it is stuck in something, you can also use it as a conduit for your own magic."

"Like a wand?"

"A wand is much more powerful. A wand doesn't require contact with the target," Weasley said gruffly. "But most folks can't afford a wand. Most folks won't even be able to afford a sword like this; they just have to rely on their natural talent."

"Huh. And a goblin-forged sword?" Sal asked. "Where does that compare?"

"Goblin-forged?" Weasley said. He sat down and scratched his beard, a misty expression in his eyes. "I've only ever seen three goblin-forged pieces in my life. Incredible pieces and so beautifully and intricately forged. I'm considered to be one of the best metalcasters out there but my work pales in comparison to that of the goblins. They are different, however. I'm not certain of all the properties of goblin-forged steel but I know it makes a much stronger blade than a metalcasted one. Your father's sword should serve you well throughout your life.

"But, even with your father's sword by your side, Sal, you will lose on the battlefield if you face the man with the goblin-forged sword by his side."

* * *

Helga gasped and lifted the wand out of its box.

"English oak, twelve and a half inches, quite spring, and cored with the strongest of the unicorn hairs you brought me," Geraint Ollivander told her. "A loyal wand for a loyal lady."

She blushed prettily and then turned and flicked her wand. The lantern at the end of Ollivander's counter floated upwards.

"This is incredible!" she gushed and promptly turned all the buttons on Sal's doublet bright yellow.

He suppressed a sigh and forced a smile on his face as even the grim Ollivander cracked a smile. The wandmaker then ducked underneath the counter and brought out another box.

"And for you, young sir. Fir, thirteen and a quarter inches, cored with your dragon heartstring and unflexible," Ollivander said. "A wand for a determined character... and for a survivor."

Sal pulled the box towards him and picked the wand up.

It warmed slightly in his palm as he held it for the first time and it seemed to fit almost perfectly with his hand. He could feel the power within and it almost scared him to feel that power. It was his to control, however, and only his.

He met Helga's gaze and grinned at her.

The wands were perfect.

* * *

They began their journey back to Wales after bidding farewell to Weasley and Elric. Sal couldn't help but tease Helga mercilessly after her goodbye with Elric, especially as the apprentice had given her a gift upon parting.

A small two-handled yellow cup; bearing the emblem of House Hufflepuff.

* * *

**Bad Bronze Cat for not updating sooner *frowns* Sorry but I've been writing other things which aren't ready for uploading yet, in particular a Next-Gen fic which will be affected by the events of Crusade! *Ooooooh!***

**Apologies for shoving metalcasting down your throats but is is important and my own invention so I feel the need to point it out. Hope you enjoyed the cameo from the Weasley and Ollivander families! Also, look, two of the Horcruxes! The cup and the locket! :O**

**Please review and I shall hopefully see you in the next chapter where we shall have a fleeting glimpse of someone very special indeed! ;)**


	6. A New Adventure

Sal scrambled to the top of the rocks and fired off a volley of curses at his quarry's back. His prey, a wizard named Emeric, spun and quickly blocked off each of the spells as they raced towards him. He laughed, a short sharp bark of a laugh, and then turned back and continued running.

Sal swore then jumped down the other side of the rocks and sprinted after Emeric's fleeing back, sending more curses towards him.

Over the heather the two wizards sped; never stopping in their back and forth with curses and spells.

Emeric skidded to a halt by a precipice and skirted left and right as he looked for a way down.

Sal drew his sword as he closed the distance between them and tightened his grip on the wand in his left hand. He kept his eyes fixed on Emeric's wand.

A bounty had been placed upon the other wizard's head for a number of crimes; the latest being the theft of the wand now in Emeric's possession and the murder of its previous owner.

Sal had also heard rumours about the wand itself. It was said to be cursed by Death, a rumour that made him a little nervous, but he knew for certain that it was a very powerful wand. How it would fair against his own he did not know.

"Give it up, Emeric. Haven't you run enough?" he called as he neared.

Emeric laughed again but this time there was a strained quality to it. "I must congratulate you, Slytherin. You are the only one of my hunters that I have had to physically flee from," he said.

"And I'll be the one to march you back to London!" Sal snarled.

"I don't think so!" Emeric growled. "_Avada Kedavra!"_

Sal dived to one side out of the path of the curse. As he rolled across the heather, he heard the distinctive _crack_ of a Disapparition. He raised his head and saw that he was indeed now alone.

He groaned, sheathed his sword, tucked his wand inside his sleeve and let himself fall back on the heather.

So close, yet so far.

Six years had passed since he had received his wand. In those six years, he had been in many fights with both wand and blade but none had been as close as that duel with Emeric had been.

If he wanted to take on the wanted wizard again, he thought, he was probably going to need the help of Sir Randolph.

Hoof beats thundered across the heather and clattered to a halt near him.

"You, boy!" an arrogant voice shouted.

Sal opened his eyes and looked for his hailer.

"Boy?! I have five years on you, at least!" he snapped.

The boy on the horse flushed. He was finely dressed in reds and browns and everything about him, from his boots to his red hair, screamed _rich Muggle_. He turned the horse and rode towards where Sal was sprawled on the heather.

"You, have you seen a bald man with an evil countenance and malevolent presence? He is wanted by the crown and we received word that he had strayed onto my father's lands," he proclaimed.

Sal, disliking the boy more and more for every second he stayed in his presence, made a great show of looking around him as if Emeric was about to pop out of a hole in the ground.

"Me? Nay, good sir! I have not seen the scoundrel you seek!" he said. "If I lay mine eyes upon him, I shall be certain to seek out your good lord father!"

The boy narrowed his eyes but spurred his horse and charged off across the moors.

Sal climbed to his feet and began to walk back towards the village where he'd found Emeric, a quaint little place called Godric's Hollow.

The landlord of the inn looked up and glared at him as he entered.

"Sorry," Sal said sheepishly and leant down to pick up a curse-scorched chair.

"You were lucky, lad. He was a nasty piece of work, even for one of your lot," the landlord said.

Sal chose to ignore the insult and continued helping to restore the inn. Eventually, the inn was restored and he was seated at the bar with a tankard of mead in front of him.

"So," he said. "Why is the inn called _The Brothers' Rest_?"

The landlord stopped wiping a tankard with a filthy rag and looked at him curiously. "Thought you'd have known about that, bein' a wizard an' all," he said. "This inn was the last rest before the Three Brothers met Death upon the roads."

"...Pardon?"

"Huh. I thought everybody knew about the Brothers. Everyone around here used to. Used to be a vibrant little community of your folk," he said, reaching down for another tankard. "Then the current lord took over from his late father, bless the old bastard's soul. Our dear lord thinks he's a cut above the rest; thought he could rename the village in honour of his son, Godric, run all the witches and wizards out in the name of _heresy _ and completely ignore our local history."

"The lord's son is named Godric?" Sal laughed. "I think I might have met him out upon the moors when I was pursuing Emeric. The little lordling thought he could take on the evil wizard all by himself."

"Little sod," the landlord muttered. "He should know better. Here, let me get you another drink..."

* * *

He had intended to ride for the Hufflepuffs the next day to enlist the help of Sir Randolph in apprehending Emeric.

But, instead, here came the owl with the note tied to its leg.

Summons.

For him.

From Matilda.

Wonderful.

She was very impatient so he knew he had to reach her as soon as possible but... well... he could not stand the woman. She was always pawing at him and hanging off his arm. The only good things that had ever come out of his acquaintance with Matilda were his wand and the number of duels he had won.

Both of these were only helping to improve his reputation in the magical community. People were beginning to realise that the name of Slytherin meant something.

There was no way of getting out of it. So, instead of turning his horse North to Wales, he turned it East to where she awaited him.

Riding there was like something out of a dream. He knew this land from somewhere. He'd been here before.

Even the castle his instructions led him to was familiar. Nostalgia washed over him as he rode under the gatehouse and swung off his horse.

He was led to a small room within the keep. Three other young men were there; two dark-headed like Sal and one of hair so pale it was almost white. They looked round as he entered and then returned to their previous conversation. Clearly they knew each other from elsewhere.

Sal moved across to a window. He could see a village in the distance. He knew the pattern of rooftops across the hill. Where was he?

A door opened behind them and Matilda breezed through.

"My dear Salazar! You have joined us at last!" she simpered, moving immediately to squeeze his arm. He tried to halt his cringe and spread a smile on his face.

"And now, I can tell you why I have gathered you here!" Matilda cooed, slipping her arm through Sal's. "Our dear Papal Father Eugene has decreed that a Second Crusade is to come about and Stephen is even now preparing a force to send. I cannot afford to spare an entire regiment of men but I can afford to send some of my wizards."

The three on the other side of the room eyed Sal carefully. He pulled himself to his full height and stared back at them. So, they were wizards too.

"You four shall be who I send," Matilda said.

The three exchanged shocked looks.

"Madame, you cannot be serious," the pale-haired one said. "How are four supposed to stand against an army?"

"I am perfectly serious, Malfoy," she snapped. "You are to be an elite force, moving from camp to camp and aiding as needed. You will show the leaders of the Crusade the powers Wizarding kind hold."

Her face was ugly for a moment before twisting back into its usual simper. "Gentlemen, this is Salazar Slytherin. He shall lead you in your adventure," she said, placing one hand on Sal's back and propelling him forward slightly.

Panic shuddered through him. He worked alone. In all the years he had spent hunting down wanted wizards, the only help he had ever sought had been from Sir Randolph or Gawain Weasley and that had been rare. How was he supposed to lead another three wizards? Three wizards who, by the looks of them, were all high-born and knew each other anyway.

One of the dark-haired men, a slight figure with an almost feminine face, tipped his head to one side and examined Sal. "I've heard of the name Slytherin. You were the wizard who dealt with the Troll in Warwick," he said. "Impressive."

"Excellent! You understand why I want dear Salazar to lead you," Matilda said sweetly.

Yes, let the commoner lead the noble boys. They were sure to listen to him.

"A ship awaits you at Dover to take you to France. From there, you should be able to meet up with the French troops and begin to help!" she said.

This was most definitely among the craziest ideas she had ever had.

They were each given a letter explaining who they were and their task and then they were bid to leave. Sal managed to write a quick letter to send off to the Hufflepuffs before they were herded from the castle and sent on their way.

Introductions were made and the four wizards left to begin their adventures.

Guarin, Cato and Aelius were the names of Sal's new companions and they seemed friendly enough. He even found himself laughing as they rode along.

His laughter died as they rode over the crest of a small hill. An oak tree stood near a bend in the road and beneath its shadow lay the burnt and blackened stone foundation of a house. He pulled his horse to a halt and stared at it.

No wonder this place had seemed so familiar.

This was the first time he had been home since that night when his parents burned.

* * *

**And this chapter brings to a close Sal's childhood and the first of the four arcs in this story! They are so far in my head -  
****1) Sal's childhood  
2) The Crusades  
3) The events leading up to and the Founding of Hogwarts  
4) Fifteen years after the Founding and the events which cause Sal to leave**

**Thank you to the many of you that followed since the last chapter and to ****CarmineDuvale for reviewing. **

**Let me know what you thought and I'll see you in the next chapter.**


	7. Golden Butterflies

"Shut it, ya French bastard!" Aelius shouted and he and Cato roared with laughter.

Sal, sitting on the other side of the fire, grinned as Guarin dived for Aelius and then returned to his journal. He lifted his legs to let the pair roll under them as they tussled playfully on the compacted earth.

He had not been sure of his companions at first. All three of them were from noble Wizarding families like the Hufflepuffs and he had been afraid that they would not take to his leadership. But they had.

In Sir Randolph he had found a father, in Helga a sister, and in Aelius, Cato and Guarin he had found brothers.

Aelius belonged to the Family Black. They had only recently received their riches and power, in fact it had been Aelius' grandfather who elevated the family, but that didn't mean that Aelius was any less of a fighter than the other two. He was strong and fearsome on the battlefield, most comfortable with a mace or morning-star instead of a sword. Unfortunately, he was also impatient and hot-headed.

If the four of them ever got into brawl with another faction in the campground, it would be because of Aelius' mouth.

Cato, on the other hand, was the quietest of the four. He was a Peverell; a name that meant little to Sal but was held in great respect by Aelius and Guarin.

And he was handsome. His face had an almost feminine beauty to it; delicately featured with eyes as blue and deep as the ocean waves. Oh, how the women of the camp loved him.

The four of them, being young, handsome and mysterious, were never left wanting for female companionship but Cato seemed capable of getting any of the women that fell under his hungry eye. It became part of the other three's morning routine to awake slightly earlier than he to see which camp follower or officer's daughter came scurrying out of his tent.

He must have left a string of bastards in a dozen or more families all across Northern Germany. The others must have too; even Sal had managed to father a child. The mother had died in childbirth and he, not knowing what else to do, had sent the sickly little thing back to Helga. How many children Cato had fathered was unknown.

On the battlefield he was nimble and quick enough but that was not the reason why he was part of their little ensemble. He had in his possession a cloak; a most magnificent cloak that turned the wearer completely invisible. According to family legend, he said, his great, great grandfather had received it from Death. It allowed him to pass unseen in enemy territory, gathering intelligence and finding secrets.

And finally, there was Guarin Malfoy. This was a name Sal had heard. Even he, little backwater bumpkin that he was, had known that the Malfoy family was one of the most powerful and influential Wizarding families that existed. Armand Malfoy had ridden at the right hand of King William I during the Norman invasion and had been richly rewarded for it. His name still carried a lot of weight, both in Britain and in continental Europe, and Guarin knew how to use it well. He was the oldest of six and he had been raised to be a gentleman and a diplomat since birth. His French name and heritage as also the reason for the charming nickname of "French Bastard" from the very English Aelius.

Sal had found his silvery hair and eyes and quiet voice unsettling at first but he had quickly learned exactly how valuable Guarin was.

Matilda was mad to have made Sal the leader of their little group. Nobody had known who Salazar Slytherin was when they arrived in the camp but all the leaders had known the name of Malfoy. Sal couldn't speak French, or German, or Latin. Guarin could. Sal had no idea how to behave in the presence of a king. Guarin did.

However, Guarin was patient and willing to teach. They had been out here for just a little over two years and, in that time, Guarin had slowly moulded Sal into a leader.

Sal himself was becoming more and more well known. The snakes upon his sword and his liking for green clothing had earned him a nickname amongst the foot soldiers of their allies - the Green Serpent. It had made him laugh the first time he heard it.

They had been aiding in the Wendish campaign across Northern Germany for some time now and, despite there only being four of them, they had garnered a reputation as a deadly and resourceful team. Nobody knew they were wizards but the commanders, but everybody knew that when they were sent on a mission they would succeed.

And there had been many, many missions.

* * *

A soldier marched up to their campfire and stood to attention.

"Herr Slytherin! The Count of Anhalt requests your presence!" he announced. Sal raised his eyebrows before stashing his journal back inside his pack and following the soldier across the camp.

The Count was a tall and handsome man; charismatic and a kind commander to his men. He was waiting outside his tent for Sal.

"Good evening, Young Slytherin," he said as Sal approached.

"Evening, sir. Do you have more orders?" Sal asked, standing beside him.

"No. I wish to discuss a more delicate situation with you," he said and pointed to the small pond that lay beside his tent. In the water, his younger children were playing.

"My daughter, Hedwig, she is like you," the Count said. "She has the Gift."

Sal looked at him in surprise. "Does it run in your family, sir?"

"_Ja._ My grandmother, my uncle, my sister. All were Gifted. Come, I shall have her demonstrate."

He called and one of his daughters raised her head and ran over to them. She was no more than seven or eight, her brown curls falling loosely over her shoulders. Her father spoke to her briefly in German and she smiled widely and clapped her hands together. When she brought them apart, butterflies made of golden sparks flew out. Her brothers and sisters screamed with delight as they flapped towards and spun about them. She giggled and, with a quick look back at her father and Sal, she ran back to join them.

"I want to know," the Count said, "if there is somewhere where she can be safe. If I cannot find her a magical tutor then I would rather send her somewhere she can be with others like her. The Pope does not like your kind and I have heard whispers that he may call for your extinction. I will not slaughter my own family nor my own people - even if it is his will."

Sal pondered this. "No, sir, I know of no such place where she would be safe."

"A shame," he said. "If such a place existed, I would send her in a heartbeat."

He sighed wearily. "There is one more reason I wish to speak with you. Summons have arrived for a grand council to be held at Acre to discuss what is to be done in the South. I have no intention of going; my business has always been here and not in the Holy Land. You should go, with your men, however. They may have need of you."

* * *

"Gentlemen, we're moving South to the Holy Land," Sal said as he arrived back at their small collection of tents.

They all groaned. "But it'll be bloody hot! We'll all roast in our armour!" Aelius snapped. Sal shrugged.

"Orders are orders," he said. "And Matilda did tell us to do as we were bid."

Cato folded his arms firmly and leant back, putting his boots up beside the fire. "Well, I'm not going anywhere until tomorrow."

They sniggered.

"Who is it tonight?" Sal asked.

Cato looked smug. "You'll see."

Sal grinned and went to sit down.

"Your fortune! Your fortune, sir?" a voice called. He looked over in its direction.

A girl was sitting on a crate, another before her. Her shawl was tightly wrapped around her and embroidered with what were supposed to be mystic symbols. People like her were common enough in the camps; Muggles who claimed to be mystics when really they did not have a drop of magical blood in their bodies.

"And you shall probably just promise me a beautiful wife with many children like all the others of your kind have tried to claim," he said, walking over to her.

She smiled at him. "Maybe, maybe not. If you want to hear sweet nothings about who you are going to marry then I suggest you find one of these others. I won't tell you about that; I will tell you the truth that is stamped across your soul."

He was intrigued, there was no denying it.

"Fine. Let us ask the standard questions," he said and sat down before her. "Will my name live on?"

"For centuries," she answered immediately. "Thousands shall bear it and more will know of it. Some will fear it; some love it; but your name shall never die."

She said it so sincerely that it did not even cross his mind that she could be making it up. She gave him a small encouraging smile and he found himself compelled to ask another question. A more typical question.

"Who shall I marry?"

"She who dreams of what will come to pass," she said. A sadness flickered across her face. "It shall bring you together but it will not be a blessing."

He sat back.

"Where shall I die?"

"Surrounded by the three dearest to you in the sanctuary you build together," she answered.

"When?"

Her eyes flicked to Guarin, Cato and Aelius still sprawled by the fire. "When your companions over there come to you again in another life. The first; you will recognise him at once. His family will be drawn to you in a way they cannot understand. They shall seek you out for guidance and wisdom and, in time, they will lead the others to you. The second shall not bear the name he bears now for it shall die in the male line. And the third will not recognise you for his true being has been hidden from him by a white-haired woman."

"When?" he repeated.

She smiled at him and leaned in close. "When a whole new land has been found beyond the western horizon. When a man tries to bring the world to its knees before a symbol of auspiciousness. When Man has left footprints upon the Moon. And not until your bastard son's blood has stained and broken the land twice," she whispered.

* * *

**So, originally I planned for Sal and his friends to always have been in the Holy Land. However, when I was researching the Second Crusade, I clicked on one of the leaders of the Crusades at random and imagine my surprise when I saw he had a daughter named Hedwig.**

**Of course, then I simply had to start my four off in the Wendish Campaign, just so I could mention her. I like to think that she grows up to be the famous Hedwig in _A History of Magic _that Harry names his Hedwig after.**

**I have absolutely no idea what Medieval German was like so I have borrowed from Modern German. Apologies for the inaccuracies.**

**We've also thrown in a dash of prophecy/destiny. Because all good stories need some of that. :P**

**Please leave me a review and I'll see you in the next chapter!**


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